While Yngve had been looking for Even, Therese Kyrkjebø had taken charge of the crime scene. He found her under the bridge with the crime-scene officers. She was standing a few feet from the body, her hand placed on her slightly rounded belly.

‘We have to ask for witnesses,’ he said as he approached. ‘Anyone who crossed the bridge some time after midnight. We have to check the trains as well; see if any were passing through after midnight. Get hold of potential conductors, passengers.’ He sighed heavily.

‘As if we don’t have enough on our hands already,’ Therese said. Her shoulders were raised almost to her ears. Her lips seemed blue against her pale face. The brutal death of yet another young person was hard to comprehend at the best of times, and in Therese’s condition, it seemed somehow compounded.

‘Are you cold?’ Yngve asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just didn’t put enough layers on.’

‘Then you’re not fine.’

‘I’ll be alright,’ she insisted.

Thankfully it had stopped raining. But there was still a biting chill in the air.

He looked at the dead boy. A green cap with spots of blood on it was lying on the ground next to his head. His eyes were open, and he had several wounds on his face. His jacket was partly torn off – some of the seams were ripped open. Behind him, on the walls of the bridge, were spots of dried blood.

‘It looks as if his head was smashed against the wall,’ Therese said, pointing to red marks. ‘Repeatedly, until…’ She stopped herself and looked away, blanching.

Around them cameras were flashing, and one of the crime-scene technicians appeared to be filming the scene.

‘If it’s the same person who beat Johannes Eklund to death,’ she continued, ‘then it certainly seems that some kind of incredible, uncontrollable rage comes over him. He just can’t stop until he’s…’

‘Or she,’ Yngve said.

‘You think so?’ Therese asked, her voice a notch more agitated. ‘You really think a woman or a girl could beat two teenage boys to death like this?’

Åse had asked him the same question last night. ‘I don’t know,’ he said – the same thing he’d told Åse. ‘If someone’s angry enough, I guess they can do just about anything. But really, I have no idea.’

Therese didn’t say anything. Yngve now noticed the homeless man – he was sitting on a large stone just outside the cordoned-off area. He had a grey blanket wrapped around him and was holding on to a mug, his knuckles white.

‘Have you talked to him yet?’ Yngve asked, nodding in his direction.

‘Just briefly,’ she said. ‘I told him to sit tight and wait for you.’

‘Good.’